


Cotton Candy

by bythedamned



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythedamned/pseuds/bythedamned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble prompt: Cotton candy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cotton Candy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it. 
> 
> Many thanks to my marvelous beta [elveys-stuff](elveys-stuff.livejournal.com)

Dean doesn't care if Sam has homework, or tryouts, or some fucking mathlete bullshit to do, he's going to wash that damned purple sugar off the floormat. Again. Until it has its old shade of 1970's rotten-avocado-brown back.

 _He'd be careful_ , he'd said, _gotta have cotton candy at a baseball game_ , like getting Dean to shell out for the cheap seats wasn't already pushing his luck. But compared to the tickets, it wasn't like those spider-web sweets would really set them back any farther, so he'd let Sam pick his color ("So long as you're not makin' a statement with that stuff, kiddo,") and even tipped the guy the extra fifty cents to round out the dollar. Of course, Sam'd gotten that shit all over his fingers and face, even in his hair, and laughed when Dean stared at the offered clump in his hand like it was the haunted wig of a dead muppet, fit to be tied and torched.

"Just remember, whatever you eat, you gotta keep down. And it's not comin' in the car with us."

Neither of them knew how Sam tracked it in, grinding the fluffy candy into a tough, sticky dollop in the footwell, but Dean knew how he was gonna get rid of it. "With your tongue, if you have to. And don't come in 'til it's clean." He slammed the motel door just to make a point, and ignored the clock when Sam finally slipped in silently two hours and thirteen minutes later, dropping the keys onto the only table and free-falling dramatically on the bed.

And now Dean's sitting in the frickin' carpool line, of all things, wishing he'd thought to nab a spot in the shade, and waiting for Sam to show his ass so Dean could rub his nose in the spot he missed. Maybe literally. Instead, Sam's goofing off, leaping around some brace-face for no goddamn reason, and miming an exaggerated wind-up and pitch. Dean can almost hear it, the overplayed retelling, when Sam's hands fly into the air. " _And the crowd went wild_..."

He's still talking a stream of nonsense when he opens the car door, chucking his bag onto the floor so he has no hope of seeing the fight they're about to have.

"... and Jody, her dad's into baseball, and so's Travis, and they said they'd _never_ seen a game like-- what?"

It only takes him ‘til his butt hits the seat to notice Dean's face, and when he does all the animation just stutters out of him, like an old VHS coming to a fuzzy pause. He even flattens himself to the door, a little, probably getting a kidney full of door handle, and he searches the cabin for some sort of clue before he asks, "Dean?"

And Dean's ready to start, s'got Dad's old speech on responsibility and following through all coiled up, but the way Sam eyebrows huddle together is a tell Dean's come to recognize too well. It's not fear, exactly, but unease, apprehension -- the same look he gets when Dad comes home early, or very very late. And it's not like Dean stops being pissed, and Sam _will_ clean up the rest of that gunk before the sun sets, but it suddenly seems less important to ream him out for this one.

All he says is, "Seat belt, Sammy," and checks his mirrors before pulling into traffic. Sam fiddles, trying to curb all that energy and ride silently along, until Dean prompts him."So, Travis?"

"Oh my god, Dean." Sam jumps up, barely held in his seat by the belt across his lap. "They were so jealous when I told them you took me. That was the best game ever."  



End file.
